âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Bob Dylan (V) •

Finally fulfilling a request for the lovely (and very patient!) pmk2002 a Bob Dylan sick fic. I also must confirm that I have nothing against Donovan before you read this! Hope you enjoy it, this book's 50th part!

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"This is the end for me now, Y/N." Bob's typically nasally voice was as low and rumbling as a train on the tracks, and he coughed as though punctuating his point.

"Tell Al all he's gettin' outta me is royalties and a hauntin'."

Looking over from the kitchen with raised eyebrows to where Bob lay, shirtless, on the sofa, you said, "You can tell him yourself."

He smiled softly, an angelic expression. "I just ain't sure I'm gonna make it that long, babe."

You chuckled, adding sugar to a mug of coffee. Albert Grossman, Bob's manager, had already called twice that morning, panic-stricken that his prodigy was, in fact, human, and therefore prone to illness.

It was true Bob didn't look himself. His nose was tinted red, eyes watering and heavy, hair dishevelled, skin ghostly pale. You weren't worried - they were not unusual symptoms for someone with the flu or a similar ailment - but you were willing to do everything to speed up his healing process. Well, everything except engage with his dramatics.

"Sick people should be on tea, y'know," you said as you paced quietly over to him, mug in hand. "Tea and toast."

Bob grimaced. "You're supposed to be makin' me feel better."

You smiled as you handed over the coffee. Bob hated tea. Bob's immune system was likely to hate that coffee. But you gave it to him anyway.

As he took a sip, you pressed the back of your hand against his perspiring forehead. He was warm, too warm - the coffee definitely didn't help. You went to pull your hand away, but Bob pressed his clammy palm to your fingers.

"No, no, stay there," he mumbled, letting his head fall back on the arm rest with your hand still pressed against his skin.

"What about water?" You asked quietly, perching on the arm of the sofa by Bob's head. "That's an invalids drink." You couldn't resist the jibe.

Bob took it in his stride, but a smile twitched at his face. "How about that toast?" His voice admittedly sounded weak, low and rough as it was.

"I didn't offer you any toast," you said with a laugh.

Bob pulled a face, tongue lolling out, opening his eyes only to cross them. "I'm dyin' over here."

Before you could respond, Bob was overtaken by a fit of coughing. He pushed your hand from his forehead, tossing his body forward to try and ease his attack.

Resting a gentle hand on his shoulder, you used the other one to pat his back, all signs of jest gone. "Easy, baby, easy," you whispered, trying to soothe him through. He sounded as though he was hacking up nails.

In seconds, Bob's coughing slowly died down, and he cleared his throat roughly. Even though you didn't believe he was seriously ill, you checked for any signs that he had coughed something up. Fortunately, there was none.